Exo-Hunter

by Jeremy Robinson

  “But,” I say. “Could you?”

  “Could I what?”

  “Remove the historical records?”

  “Why would I—”

  “As you already noted, I am a new breed of Overseer. My job is to predict—like yours—but instead of finding habitable worlds for the glorious Union, I am looking for security risks. If you can show me how someone might collect the historical records and transport them from the Database, it would make my job easier.”

  “I don’t know…”

  “You help me,” I say, “I’ll help you. Show me how it could be done, and I won’t mention this infraction now…or at any time in the future.”

  Her smile lights up the aisle. “For real?”

  “Absolutely,” I say.

  “Radical,” she says.

  “Mmm,” I say, and I chime in with my own 80’s teen speak. “Totally tubular.”

  She squints at me, but she says nothing. She opens a drawer and takes out a small device. Plugs it into the front of her computer terminal. “This is a pinkie drive. It’s small, but it has enough storage to hold several terraflops of data.”

  I don’t know what a terraflop is. Sounds kind of sexual. But I don’t want to appear too ignorant. “How much of the historical record would that hold?” I point to the screen.

  She shrugs. “About a hundred years’ worth.”

  The mask hiding my expressions has never been more useful. If she could see my face, the jig would be up. I’m almost sick with desperate hope.

  “Show me,” I say. “Transfer everything between 1950 and 2050.” I haven’t seen the movies and media post ’89, but there are more than a lot of sequels I want to see, and a number of bands who have more than a few more albums in them.

  “Sure,” she says, tapping a few buttons. A file transfer progress bar appears on the screen, slowly moving from left to right. “While we wait,” she says, spinning around to face me, “why don’t you tell me who you actually are, and what you’re really doing here?”

  “I already told you,” I say.

  “Horse shit,” she says. Kid is up on her past lingo. Speaks like one of us. “I heard you quote the movie. No one says ‘tubular.’ And there aren’t any damn Overseers with dicks. Start talking or I push the big red button.”

  Her hand is hovering over an actual big red button labeled: SECURITY.

  Shit.

  I see only one way out of this, and it’s risky, but what the hell, we’re pirates now.

  “What’s your name, kid?”

  “I’m the one asking the questions,” she says, doing an impersonation of me.

  “Just…c’mon. Your name. Mine is Dark Horse.”

  “That’s a stupid name.” When I laugh, she smiles. “Hildegard.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I said, ‘Hildegard.’ That’s my name.”

  “And you think I have the stupid name?”

  Her hand moves toward the button. “It’s a common name.”

  “Okay, okay. Sorry. I just… Can I call you Hildy?”

  She smiles again. “That’s what my mother called me, so I’m told.”

  I want to ask her about her mother, but this isn’t the time or place. “Listen, Hildy, I have one question for you.”

  She waits, expectant eyebrows raised.

  “Have you seen Back to the Future?”

  “Like, six times,” she says. “‘Hello. McFly.’”

  “So…my situation is like that, but instead of moving back in time, I moved forward in time from the past.”

  “I get it. That’s Back to the Future Part II,” she says.

  “Did…did you just say Back to the Future…Part Two? There was a sequel?”

  “At the end of 1989.”

  “Is that on there?” I point to the pinkie drive.

  She nods. “So…you’re from the past.”

  “Early 1989,” I say.

  Her hand rests on the button without pushing it. “Prove it.”

  “Okay…just…try not to spaz out.” Moment of truth. No going back. Do or die. I take a deep breath, check to make sure no one is watching, let it out, and then remove my mask.

  16

  A slowly building high-pitched squeal rises out of Hildy’s throat. Her eyes are locked onto my face, looking at my eyes, my lips, my hair.

  “Pretty awesome, right?” I say.

  She can’t speak.

  “Hildy,” I say. Her eyes lock onto mine. “Can you remove your hand from the button now?”

  Her hand snaps back. “Sorry. I just… How are you here?”

  “Like right now, in the Database, or—”

  “In the future,” she says.

  “Long story.” I glance at the data transfer progress bar. It’s a little more than halfway done. “Too long.”

  She hitches a thumb toward her monitor. “Is this what you’re here for? Movies and music?”

  “Not exactly,” I say. “I heard you humming.”

  Her eyes widen. Fearful. “I was humming?”

  “Guess that’s not a good thing?”

  “There’s no official rule against accessing the historical record…if you’re a historian.”

  “Is the data not protected?” I ask

  “I stole a historian’s credentials. I’ve been using them for a few years. The people who made all this are long gone, but the stories…the music… It gives me hope, you know?”

  “Hope for what?”

  “Something more than this.” She looks around at the whirring computers. “I sit in a room like this every day. We can’t go outside. I’ve never smelled fresh air. I’ve never…had fun. Or friends. In a few months, I’ll have to start carrying babies.”

  Kid is breaking my heart.

  “Of course, none of that will be possible now,” she says.

  “Why…”

  She tilts her head toward the screen. “Viewing files is a normal part of a historian’s daily tasks. Downloading ten decades of data onto a portable drive is not. It will be flagged. Reviewed. And it will eventually lead to me… Oh no!” She snags the mask in my hands. Shoves it in my face. “Put it back on! And don’t turn around!”

  She’s looking behind me and over my head. I was so distracted by the siren song of Sweet Dreams that I didn’t check for security cameras. If I’d been facing the other direction, Union Command would have had a clear view of my face.

  I slip the mask back on, then turn around for a look. The mirrored bubble in the ceiling makes it impossible to see where the camera is facing, but we have to assume it’s pointed straight at us.

  Close call for me, but Hildy is right. She’s in deep shit.

  “Hildy…” I shouldn’t do this. It’s reckless. And stupid. And the others are going to kill me. But it’s the right thing to do. Huddled masses and all that. “Do you know what a pirate is?”

  “Like someone who steals data?”

  “Not really, but— Actually, yeah, that’s exactly what I’m doing here, but in a more historical sense, like with a boat, and a crew and ‘argh, me hearties.’”

  “Ohh,” she says. “Like Jack Sparrow?”

  “I don’t know who that is,” I say.

  “Right. 1989. You haven’t seen Pirates of the Caribbean.”

  “Pirates of the… Did they make a movie out of a theme park ride?”

  “I think so, yeah. Also, Captain Hook! And One-Eyed Willy!”

  I put my gloved hand over her mouth. She’s getting excited. “Okay, okay, you know what a pirate is. The question is…do you want to be one?”

  “Me a irate?!” she says, her voice muffled by my hand. “Iv oo?”

  “But…it’s more than that,” I say. “Me and my crew—”

  “On a irate ip?”

  “Yes. The Bitch’n.”

  I feel her smile under my hand. “itch’n!”

  “Can you calm down so I can understand what you’re saying?” I ask.

  She nods. I slowly withdraw my hand.
>
  “Here’s the deal. We’re not just stealing stuff and hoarding treasure. We’re also looking for my people—”

  “Other people from the past?”

  “Four of them, yes.”

  “Radical.”

  “And…” This is where it becomes a hard sell. “We’re taking a stand against…all this. The way people live. The rape of countless worlds. The extinction of millions of species. The destruction of our world.”

  “Of Earth,” she says, wistfully.

  “Yeah.”

  “So…not just pirates, but…rebels against the Union?”

  I let that sink in a little bit. It’s intimidating to hear aloud. “Yes.”

  She sits unmoving. Ten silent seconds goes by.

  Is she going to bolt?

  Is she going to whack the security button?

  I wouldn’t blame her for doing either. The proposition before her is no doubt daunting.

  When we reach the twenty second mark, I can’t stand it anymore. “Well? Are you in?”

  The file transfer progress bar disappears. She pulls the pinkie drive out of the computer. “Doy. I was just waiting for the download to finish.” She stands, pushes her chair in, and switches off the screen.

  “Wait. Really? Just like that?”

  She looks at me like I’ve just eaten shit and asked, “Hhhhhow are you doing?” point blank. “You think anyone living in this hellhole wants to be here?” She smiles. “But only one of them knows what a pirate is, and only one of them can help you find your lost friends.”

  Holy shit. She’s a predictor. Finding needles in haystacks is her job.

  “Also, we should go. They know about the file transfer by now.”

  “And if they know about yours…” I grab her wrist and run back the way I came. At the junction, we round the corner at a sprint, skip an aisle, and then head down the next. Carter and Burnett are still there, working at a console.

  Burnett looks nervous, his fingers a blur.

  Carter’s jaw grinds.

  They’re not making any progress.

  Carter sees me coming and flinches. Faces me with clenched hands.

  “It’s me,” I say, showing her my palms. Her eyes flick from me to Hildy behind me. She has questions of her own, but she answers mine first. “We hit a dead end.”

  “The system has a credential system I didn’t know about, and mine…well, salvagers don’t have access to much.” He sees Hildy and smiles. “Hello.”

  “Hi,” she says. “Are you a pirate, too?”

  “You didn’t?” Carter says to me. “For real?”

  “I’m a pirate, too,” Hildy says. “Don’t worry.”

  “I feel so much better,” Carter’s skeptical sarcasm shifts to hope. “Can you access the system?”

  “If they haven’t locked me out yet.” Hildy shoos Burnett away from the console. Takes his seat. Slips the pinkie drive into the console. Types in her credentials.

  Access granted.

  “What do you need?”

  Carter tries to hide her grin, but I can tell she’s pleased and impressed. “Any and everything having to do with a ship called Zorak.”

  “You have a serial number?” Hildy asks.

  “Just the name,” I say. “We need to know where they’ve been and where they’re going.”

  Her fingers fly over the keys. Several searches come up empty. “That name isn’t on file for any ship. What kind of vessel is it?”

  “I don’t know ship models,” I confess.

  “A custom build,” Burnett says, “but it’s being used by an Exo-Hunter.”

  “Exo-Hunters,” Hildy says with a little bit of vitriol. “Union couldn’t rape the galaxy without them.” She looks back at me with a ‘you know what I’m talking about’ look on her face.

  “Well,” I say. “You know. Some people in questionable lines of work turn out to be good guys.”

  She twists her lips. “Like Han Solo.”

  “Exactly!” I say.

  “The people we’re looking for are like Han Solo?” she asks.

  “I hope so,” I say, and I motion to the screen.

  It’s all the reminder she needs. “Still nothing. But…” She keeps on typing. “We can just copy all the celestial data from…”

  “Past five years,” I say.

  “Past five years, and all the predictor assignments moving forward for the next year.”

  “You know where we’re going for the next year?”

  She pauses. “Where who is going?”

  “Where they’re going,” I say, hoping she doesn’t notice the edit. “Exo-Hunters.”

  Her eyes linger for a moment. “Yes.” She taps the Enter key. A file transfer begins. Its progress is much faster than the media we pilfered. “Thousands of goldilocks planets have already been identified and scheduled for Exo-Hunting.”

  She swivels the chair toward me. “You know. I heard a rumor. About a ship of salvagers turned Exo-Hunters. They’re long-termers, which is unusual, but they’re also fast. Some say they’re hungrier for new planets than the Union.”

  “Huh,” I say.

  “You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?” The file transfer finishes. She pulls out the pinkie drive. Clutches it in her hand. All without taking her eyes off mine.

  Busted.

  Kid is smart.

  Before I can try to wiggle my way out of her ire, a commanding female voice says, “Nobody move. Keep your hands where I can see them.”

  I raise my hands and use my body to shield Hildy from the woman’s view. I’m relieved when Hildy slowly slips the pinkie drive into her pocket. She’s not thrilled about us being Exo-Hunters, but she’s still on board.

  “Face me,” the woman says. “All of you.”

  I turn toward the woman, whose garb matches mine. Like me, her face is hidden behind a mask, but the skintight body suit reveals a curvy, but stocky body. Low center of gravity. She’s got mass behind her, and the way she’s holding herself says that she knows how to use it.

  “Overseer,” she says, addressing me. “What is the meaning of this gathering?”

  “There was…an accident,” I say. “I stopped to assist.”

  “I tripped,” Hildy says, looking sheepish.

  “What’s wrong with your voice?” the woman asks me.

  I clear my throat and attempt to raise it an octave or two. “Uhh, my lunch was spicy.”

  “Mmm. Let me get this straight,” the Overseer says to Hildy. “You tripped, caught yourself on the computer console, accidentally inserting a pinkie drive into the computer, and downloading sensitive material?”

  “Yes,” Hildy says. “That.”

  “And the same thing happened to you two aisles over?” the Overseer asks.

  “I’m clumsy,” Hildy says.

  The Overseer’s reflective lenses are locked on to me. “Overseer, turn sideways.”

  I do as asked, trying to act casually annoyed at being grilled by one of my own.

  “Where is your bump?” she asks.

  I glance down at Hildy, whispering. “What does she mean?”

  “You’re not pregnant,” Hildy says.

  My head snaps around to the Overseer. I mistook her girth as straightforward body weight. But it’s not. She’s pregnant. My arms fall to my sides. My voice returns to normal. “Hold up. Overseers are all pregnant women?”

  “The female gender is capable of serving the Union in multiple ways, simultaneously!” The Overseer’s response is aggressive. Fanatical. Hildy is eager to take a stand, but this woman is a true believer. And if Hildy has access to the historical data of the 80s, everything before that exists, too, including World War II, the moral code of the Third Reich, and Mein Kampf. Which means—

  “Alarm!” the Overseer shouts. “Alarm!”

  —these Overseer ladies are the real deal. Nazis. And that means the Union has sharper teeth than I believed.

  Two more Overseers arrive behind the first. A
t the far end of the aisle, several hundred feet away, three more of the female guards stalk toward us.

  “Can I just ask you one question?” I ask the Overseer.

  She waits.

  “Is my lack of a pregnant belly the only reason you knew I wasn’t a woman?” I motion to my body. “Really?”

  “You’re not a woman?” she responds.

  “Oh, that is it,” I say, raising my clenched fists. “Come and get some, Captain Preggers.”

  17

  “You’re not serious?” Carter says to me, as I await the Overseers with clenched fists.

  I was kind of hoping that concern for their unborn children would dissuade them from a fight with a larger combatant, but the Overseers show no signs of backing down. “You see another way out of this?”

  “We could rotate out of here,” she says.

  “That was a bad idea the first time you did it. And now there are four of us. Also, I’m not sure where we are in relation to the surface, or Bitch’n.”

  “So, take us a few aisles over. Nazis or not, you can’t fight pregnant women.”

  “Fine,” I say, grabbing her shoulders. I pull her close, and we rotate out of the aisle, and into the hallway outside. I shove her away and then rotate back.

  The Overseers are closer when I arrive, but they flinch back at my arrival.

  “How did you do that?” Hildy asks.

  I grab Burnett and rotate out, depositing him next to Carter in the hall. I give myself a quick once over, making sure I don’t have anyone else’s parts attached to my body, then I say, “Be right back,” and rotate back into the Database.

  I slip out of the white void, intending to grab Hildy and go poof, but a freight train fist is waiting for me. Connects with my chin. Had I been a shorter man, it would have crushed my nose.

  My feet scramble to keep me upright, as I reel back from the punch. I crash into a console and find a fiendishly grinning Captain Preggers stalking toward me.

  Behind her, Hildy is easily subdued by the other two. Apparently, Preggers called dibs on me. Even the three Overseers approaching from behind have slowed down.